Air Time
by MapleFlavouredIce
Summary: All he wanted to do was believe in something, someone. He'd never wanted to be right, with all his assumptions. Green/Red originalshipping


A breath or two and something's yet to move. Green's curled and shaking, body yet to give up the lithe chest pressed against it and wrapped in hands of shiny porcelain. When he looks up, there's gracious curves of tea rose lips and mile-long lashes framing sanguinary eyes.

Could be the last time he sees this picture. Could be the first time he sees beyond the silent walls, though. Red gives him a smile that'd be calm and collected if it belonged to anybody else, but on this this boy that used to be everything, it's wobbly at best (quivering and torn, oh-so-beautiful, oh-so-séduisant).

At this point there's not much to do but focus on the façade he's got to keep on, and hold onto the tears that want to follow his sniffles. He's got to be the person he's always portrayed at this point, but he's too far gone to know how he'd act and right now, just that he's got to let go, let go of that alizarin jacket beneath his fingers (it's a nice sort of fabric, with rivets just pressing back and it sort of murmurs these little things to him, about this all being bête noire).

He gives himself a few shaky, long minutes to comfort himself in this drawn out warmth (a vague, whispering feeling like he's overstayed the welcome) and puts the colours and smells and touches deep into his memory. The jade eyes rove over the soft puckers of goose bumps while his skin memorizes the silk velvety feel of those forearms and the pulse of those azure veins just beneath his thumb.

A shift of sight and there's this Alice blue scarf beneath his nose and sanguine orbs in front of his own, and the color's tinted bistre as they try to look past his guard. He won't stay here (it's oh-so-dangerous, and he'd get lost if he travelled down this road any further) and knows, knows that if he lets go of what makes him Green to everyone but him (but the man in this room, there's no way he's such a fool), there's no going back and, and-

He'd have to admit to things he wouldn't want to and his pride wouldn't take to that. He's caught in this circle of take and take and take and never give, and he knows it's not the healthiest of things to do to those closest to you, but he really can't help it; when he remembers all those times he had to give and give and give and never get in return. He likes to pretend that his vision isn't really tinted rose at the edges and that his heart is always crazily going ba-dump ba-dump in his throat. He likes to pretend that his blood doesn't feel like it's burning him from the inside out, and that crimson and sanguine were never actually his favorite colors.

When he takes all his assumptions into account, he thinks he knows how Red will react when he tells him to stay, so he keeps himself quiet and moves up and away. The room's a blur of pearly whites and swirls of Eton blues past his eyes and he can smell whiffs of apple and spice if he lets his guard slip, but he continues with the patter of foot in front of foot (baby steps, just baby steps, 'cos if his assumptions are right he knows that this is drawn out sort of thing is pulling the atmosphere out into a heavier cloud, suffocating, suffocating).

The jade-eye bearer finds himself in a mahogany chair halfway across the room from the bed of halcyon blues and inviting sheets, fingers laced on his lap to keep them from pulling his hair (or from reaching out and grabbing that pretty face).

"I've gotta go, y'know," is all that makes it past pinked lips and all that flutters into those carefully veiled sanguine eyes. It's a silent sort of pause, and the room's been breathing in the terse movements for so long that the stutters and the less-than-perfect grammar from Red seem perfectly normal. There's a slight tilt from the head of chocolate locks perched in the wooden seat and it's perhaps the only recognition that he heard what the youth on his bed had to say. It's his assumptions that keep any life from reaching his jade eyes (he assumes, always assumes, that quiet dulls the pain, makes it leave quicker, but-). A faint rustle and the red-eyed man is on his feet, looking between Green and the door out, in all its western red cedar glory.

He's starting to feel like a petulant child at this point, but with all the words they've left hanging in the air it only feels like a matter of time before he starts drowning. There's a little dance of fleeting feet, and Red physically moves back and forth, towards him, towards the door, towards him- mind finally made, the stranger in the Alice blue scarf and alizarin sweater heads towards the way out, fingers splayed to say goodbye (wanting to say, yes, I'll stay) and a look thrown backwards. It's maybe the last chance to change an assumption.

"You've got my number." It's not a question, just a statement; to which Green just barely nods.

And after that all he can do is bury his face into his hands, take in that apple and spice, and whisper little things for comfort. When the jade eyes look up, the color's gone hard but his face is streaked with grimy little tracks of tears. "Yea, yea. Have fun at Mount Silver." There's a little curse just nudging its way at the end of that sentence but it never comes, and maybe that takes the edge away from the knife just hanging above the room.

"Take your empty love with ya." All he gets his is a fine, delicate ebony eyebrow inching its way past the hairline and a closed door (and an empty room, a lonely room, and an empty heart, a lonely heart).


End file.
